


How To (Almost) Kill Your Bard

by neenapee



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:17:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23437474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neenapee/pseuds/neenapee
Summary: When Jaskier gets in the way of one of Geralt's hunts, only bad things can happen.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 217





	How To (Almost) Kill Your Bard

“Tell me again, what are we looking for?” Jaskier asks, peering around Geralt’s shoulder. 

“A Lavellan,” Geralt says, glaring sharply at Jaskier. His sword is poised to attack, his face wearing the ruthless, gritty expression that always makes Jaskier want to compose another song. “Now shut up and let me do my job. Go sit against a tree, leave me be.”

“Oh, that bit rhymed,” Jaskier says. He strums out a tune on his lute, muttering a pair of lyrics underneath his breath. “Maybe you’re in the wrong profession. You’d be a better bard than I. Now performing: Geralt the famous white wolf, the bard of the millennia!”  
“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up,” Geralt growls. “Look. See that tree over there?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good. Go sit there while I search for this thing and we can leave.” 

“Fine,” Jaskier says. “I suppose you don’t want my cheery lyrics or my uplifting tunes, is that right?” 

“I couldn’t care what you do,” Geralt says. He’s still creeping around, scouring the ground as if the mighty Lavellan that the townspeople seemed so afraid of would be cowering underneath a rock. “So long as you do it underneath that tree.” He nods to a sprawling oak with sunlight pouring through the slits in the leaves. It looks lovely, he admits, to sit there strumming his lute while Geralt fights whatever nasty creature the townspeople have sent him after. And although he’ll miss pestering Geralt, the dirt underneath the tree looks lovely. 

It’s fifteen minutes later, and Geralt has found nothing. It shouldn’t be this hard to find a beast, but Geralt seems to be having issues. Jaskier seems to be having the time of his life, calling out encouragement such as some witcher you are! and a blind man could find a monster better than you! Geralt glares at him every time he calls out, but Jaskier knows that he’s got better things to do than argue with Jaskier. 

It’s been twenty minutes and Geralt hasn’t found a thing. Jaskier can tell that he’s getting frustrated, but Jaskier himself is enjoying his time underneath the grand oak tree. He’s developed a new tune, a couple of new lyrics, and a shrew-like creature has just run up to him, small and admittedly cute. Its breath is rank, putrid enough to make Jaskier’s head swim and his throat burn, but it’s taken quite a liking to him so he lets it run up his leg, tiny claws digging into Jaskier’s shirt. He’s having more success in finding creatures than Geralt is, and he isn’t even trying.

When twenty-five minutes have passed Geralt turns to Jaskier, brow furrowing once he spots the tiny creature climbing on Jaskier’s shirt. Jaskier has grown quite fond of it; he’s named it Òran, for song. “What is that, Jaskier?” Geralt asks, growing closer with his sword readied for attack. 

“It’s a shew, I believe,” Jaskier says, frowning as he strokes its head. Its breath grows viler by the second and his head is starting to spin, but he assumes it’s simply from the boiling sun. “I’ve named it Òran. I’m thinking of bringing him on the road with me, as a mascot of sorts. Although I’ll have to get used to the rancid smell of its breath. Truly horrible.” 

“Jaskier you stupid man,” Geralt growls, reaching for Òran and yanking him off of Jaskier’s shirt. Òran‘s legs dangle in midair, squealing as if panicked, but Geralt shows no remorse. He holds the animal out in front of him before dropping it on the ground, cleanly slicing it in half. 

“Geralt, that was supposed to be my mascot!” Jaskier protests. He stands up but he’s dizzy and he stumbles, leaning on the tree for support. “You know, ladies like a man with a pet.”

“That wasn’t a shrew, that was the Lavellan,” Geralt says. He’s breathing heavily as if his energy has been taxed by such a tiny creature. “Jaskier, did it breathe on you?” 

“That’s the creature that has been terrorizing the townspeople?” Jaskier asks, leaning over its corpse. It looks so innocent in death, just as it had while crawling up Jaskier’s shirt. “It’s so small.” 

“That’s it’s ploy. It tricks people into thinking it’s cute and innocent before poisoning them. The only antidote is a spell using its flesh so when it escapes, its victims are dead within two hours. Jaskier, tell me it didn’t breathe on you.” 

“A bit, I suppose,” Jaskier says. His head is spinning more now, the woods moving around him as if he’s just woken up from a deep sleep. Geralt curses, pressing his palm to Jaskier’s head. 

“You’re warm. How do you feel?”

“Dizzy,” Jaskier admits. He blinks, the image of the woods before him growing fuzzy. He coughs, and his throat burns. “Geralt, is something wrong?” 

“Damn it, Jaskier, of course, something is wrong,” Geralt says. He bends down and swipes up the Lavellan’s body effortlessly, shoving it in a satchel without minding the blood or the guts spilling out. Jaskier coughs again, and when he’s done, he realizes that his throat still hasn’t opened back up, and the world hasn’t stopped spinning. He can’t breathe quite right, and when he takes a step he misplaces where to put his foot and falls headfirst into Geralt’s chest. He half expects Geralt to let him fall to the ground but he supports Jaskier, holding him up on two feet. “You’ve been poisoned,” Geralt murmurs. It could just be the quickly growing fever, but Jaskier could almost swear that he hears a hint of concern in Geralt’s tone. “Don’t worry, there’s a mage in the town who can do the spell. But we have to hurry.” 

Jaskier’s steps are slowed by the spinning in his head, the way his blood seems to boil in his veins, so Geralt sweeps him up off of his feet, depositing him onto Roach’s back and letting Jaskier’s head fall against his back. He’s burning hotter now; his fever risen within a couple of minutes. Geralt can feel Jaskier sweating, shaking against him. The body of the Lavellan thumps against his leg in his satchel, blood leaking through and staining the bag. He takes spoils from fights sometimes, but never like this. But this time, it’s necessary. 

By the time they arrive in the town, Jaskier is on fire. His coughs have grown deeper, blood splattering his lips on the occasion, and he can no longer stand on his own. He tumbles off of Roach’s back into Geralt’s arms, his body limp and weak and dying. There is no other way to say it. Jaskier is dying, and it’s Geralt’s fault. “A mage!” Geralt calls out, clutching Jaskier to his chest. He can feel Jaskier’s hot breath on his skin, his body shaking with fever. “I need a mage!” The townspeople steer clear of them; they’re wary of illness and even if Jaskier’s can’t be transmitted, Geralt understands. 

A man steps out of the crowd, tattered robes hanging off of a hunched body, long beard scraggly and white. He takes a sweeping look at Jaskier’s unconscious body, feels for his fever and assesses his condition. “What happened?” the mage asks. 

“The Lavellan,” Geralt says. He’s exhausted; from searching for the creature, from pushing Roach to go faster, faster, from having no choice but to feel Jaskier’s fevered head against his back as they rode. “Please- can you help him?” 

“Do you have the body?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good,” the mage says. He starts walking, and Geralt has no choice but to leave Roach in the square and follow. “Come with me. We don’t have much time.” 

An hour and a half. It has been an hour and a half since Jaskier’s initial poisoning, and his body is dying quicker by the second. His normally vibrant skin is pale and ghostly and even in unconsciousness, his body is wracked with coughs that bring up specks of blood. “Are you almost finished with that?” Geralt snaps at the mage. The mage glares at him as he grinds up herbs and boils the Lavellan’s body. 

“Antidotes take time, Witcher,” he spits. “It isn’t instantaneous.” 

“He’s dying,” Geralt says. “Look at him. What does he have left, half an hour?” 

“If that,” the mage says. “Be patient. The antidote is almost done.” He murmurs an incantation over the mixture, and it puffs and sparks. Jaskier murmurs something under his breath but it’s incoherent, and Geralt can’t make out a syllable, let alone a word. His skin is slick with a sheen of sweat and it glistens in the light of the candles that surround him. The antidote really is almost done; Geralt can smell the rancid scent in the air, but there’s still a timer ticking in his head, one that will go off when Jaskier takes his final breath. 

It isn’t much longer until the mage carefully pushes Jaskier’s lips apart, drips in the antidote with careful hands. For a second nothing happens, and Geralt waits with bated breath. “Did it work?” he asks, turning to the mage. The mage bends over Jaskier’s body, frowning as he presses his palm to his forehead. 

“Be patient, Witcher,” he says. “Antidotes need a minute or two.” 

The timer in Geralt’s head is tick, tick, ticking and still, nothing has happened. He’s just about to start yelling at the mage when Jaskier murmurs something in his sleep, coughs up more specks of blood. The shaking intensifies and all of a sudden he’s coughing harder than he ever has before. He curls in on himself, coughing blood into his hands. Geralt spins around, one hand on Jaskier’s back and the other forming a fist at his side. “What did you do to him you stupid mage?” Geralt asks. “What’s wrong with him?” 

“He’s healing,” the mage says. “Getting everything out of his system. He will be weak for a couple of days, maybe a week. Get a room, let him rest. He’ll be back to his normal self in two weeks. Now, my coin?” 

“I want to be sure he’s okay first,” Geralt says. He hovers over Jaskier; he’s stopped coughing but his body is still, almost lifeless. Some of the color has started to come back, but he still looks like a dead man. “Jaskier?” 

“Here,” Jaskier mumbles. His voice is so quiet Geralt can barely pick it up but it’s there. “I’m fine. I’m good. I’ve never been better. Should we get some food? I’m famished.” He sits up, immediately falling into Geralt’s arms. His body is still burning, but it has lessened. The mage is right. He’s healing. 

“So,” the mage says, a smug smile on his face. “I’ll take my coin now.” Geralt almost wants to punch the mage, for being so self-assured and cocky. For making Geralt wait in a state of panic as he healed Jaskier. But Geralt won’t punch the mage. He will pay the coin and be on his way because, in the end, the mage had healed Jaskier, and that’s all Geralt could ask for.

\------

They get a room at the nearest inn. It’s cheap and the beds are hard, but it’s the most they could afford; the mage had sucked Geralt dry with the payment for the antidote, but it doesn’t matter because Jaskier is alive. 

Jaskier sleeps throughout much of the first day. He still burns hot with fever, and a couple of times an hour he’ll launch into a coughing fit that makes even Geralt’s chest hurt. The mage told him this would happen, that it would take a couple of days for Jaskier to be well. But Geralt is still nervous that one morning he will wake up and Jaskier will be dead, and it will be his fault. 

Three times a day Geralt wakes Jaskier from a deep sleep to pour soup and water into his mouth. The first couple of times Jaskier choked on even the tiniest bit of liquid but on the second day, Jaskier drinks like he’s never drank before. On the second the color fully returns to his cheeks, and his eyes crack open, not long enough to hold a conversation but long enough for him to assure Geralt that he’s healing. 

On the third day of the healing process, he sits up. The color drains from his face as soon as he does but he stays sitting, blinking hard and rubbing at his eyes. “Geralt?” he asks. His voice is hoarse and he coughs hard into the crook of his arm. “What- where am I?” 

“You’re in Roxburghshire,” Geralt says coolly. He’s been sitting in the same inn room for nearly three days straight; he’s aching to get out and stretch his legs, but he can’t leave Jaskier alone, not until he’s sure that he won’t die. He still fully blames himself for what had happened, and he might never stop. “Specifically the Roxburghshire Inn.” He puts down the blade he’s been cleaning for the past three days, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward to look intently at Jaskier. “What do you remember?” 

“Òran the shrew,” Jaskier says. “He betrayed me. And then there was pain. A lot of pain. And I was cold, and now I’m here.” He shivers, wrapping his arms around himself. “And still quite cold. May I have a blanket?” Geralt brings over the thick woolen one from his bed, draping it over Jaskier’s body as he presses his palm to Jaskier’s cheek. 

“You’re still quite ill,” Geralt says. “We’ll give you another day or so to get your strength back before we move on to the next town. As for what happened, you were poisoned. Had I waited another half hour to get you to the mage, you would have died.” 

“So I see the almighty Geralt isn’t so almighty after all,” Jaskier says. 

“Shut up.” 

“What? Are you upset that you made a mistake?” 

“I said shut up,” Geralt growls. “I’ve healed you, I’ve paid for your room at the inn, I’ve fed you and nursed you back to health. Is that not enough for your standards, bard?” 

“Geralt, it was a joke,” Jaskier says. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me. I know it cannot have been easy for such a man as yourself to do something nice for another.” Geralt makes a sound similar to that of a harumph, but there’s a rare smile dancing across his lips, and his cat-like eyes sparkle with something resembling mirth. Jaskier is still weak, there is no question about it. His limbs still ache with fever and his head spins with the effort of simply being alive. The road to recovery may be a long one, and a painful one, but at least Geralt will be beside him along the journey.


End file.
